


Safeguard

by Theyumenoinu



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Court Martial, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, FTM Hawkeye, Frank is typical Frank, Hurt B.J., Hurt Hawkeye, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Smut, Pining, Protective B.J. Hunnicutt, Protective MASH family, Trans Character, Transphobia, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyumenoinu/pseuds/Theyumenoinu
Summary: Keeping his secret from being revealed could land him and the man he loves in military prison for the rest of their natural lives. And Frank's growing suspicions are nothing short of a threat.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Safeguard

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own M*A*S*H or its characters. 
> 
> Important Note: I'm transgender, but my own experiences and comforts or discomforts do not reflect those of the community as a whole. Do not take this as a collective account. Also, consider the time period and understand outdated terms will be used, as well as transphobic language and viewpoints. Read at your own risk. Please note that it won't be entirely angst--there are allies! After all, everyone loves Hawkeye.
> 
> Updates: Sporadically

**Safeguard**

* * *

**Chapter One**

  
  
“Beej, I need to talk to you,” Hawkeye starts once the door of the Swamp catches the metal edge of Frank’s cot. Prompting said insufferable man to bark from his position by the mirror: “Hey! You’ve just damaged army property!”

Irritation slithers unpleasantly along Hawkeye’s skin and instantly steals away his mood to entertain Frank’s superiority complex. “Well, my ‘army property’ ears have been damaged by your incessant whining, but I have yet to see a cent in restitution,” he fires back.

Frank scoffs. A dab of shaving cream flying free from his chin to land on the collar of his undershirt. “I do not _whine_.”

“No, of course not,” Hawkeye returns derisively. “The camp only stuff their ears full of cotton to better hear the sweet cadence of your angelic voice.”

It provokes the reaction desired as Frank flings a rag over his shoulder and curtly collects his shaving kit. His footfalls obnoxiously loud while he marches in a huff from the tent—in search of Margaret’s shoulder to cry upon, no doubt. Another formal complaint against his person all but expected now, Hawkeye knows.

“I think you’ve hurt his feelings,” BJ chimes in facetiously, eyeing Hawkeye expectantly from his respective cot. A half-written letter forgotten atop the blanket in favor of witnessing the usual drama.

With a groan, Hawkeye settles heavily into his chair; habitually tipping his cowboy hat to conceal his eyes. “The only thing that hurts more is his presence.”

A soft chuckle floats in the space between them. “Can’t say I disagree.” At Hawkeye’s acknowledging grunt, BJ wonders, “You said you needed to talk to me?”

The sudden twisting in his gut doesn’t take Hawkeye by surprise, given the number of times he’s faced such a situation. However, the consternation flooding him does shock him into quietly pondering where the line of BJ’s limitations lie, and how far his loyalty extends. After all, he’s hardly had a few months to understand the man’s boundaries, let alone his beliefs. Though, Hawkeye supposes, he is far more trustworthy than anyone else in camp at the moment—aside from Radar and Klinger, that is.

“Yeah.” Hawkeye clears his throat as he removes the hat with a sense of bravery he doesn’t entirely own. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, lay it on me,” BJ presses, offering his undivided attention as he moves to sit upright. The springs of the cot emitting a squeak in protest.

His friend’s casual demeanor causes Hawkeye hesitation.

“I could use a belt first,” Hawkeye dodges, voice straining around the hard lump forming rapidly at the base of his throat. Pretending to miss the puzzled expression passing fleetingly over his friend’s face before BJ obligingly collects the martini glasses.

The silence slamming down between them is heavy with uncertainty, forcing Hawkeye to turn his gaze downcast in hopes to temper his nerves. When the glass appears within his line of sight without comment, he accepts it graciously.

“Hawk,” BJ starts.

“Yeah?”

“I can do many things, but mind-reading isn’t one of them,” he jests, aiming to lessen the steadily mounting tension.

Hawkeye smiles, despite himself. “No wonder you never laughed at my jokes the minute I thought of them.”

“It’s a real tragedy,” BJ adds.

“Only next to the issuance of Frank’s surgical license.”

His friend barks a laugh and the sound causes Hawkeyes smile to broaden.

“Can’t argue with that,” BJ returns. “So, what’s going on?”

Hawkeye intakes a deep, fortifying breath. “Beej.” He swallows thickly. “I need your help.”

Quirking a brow, BJ predictably inquires, “With what?”

“Okay, maybe not help,” Hawkeye corrects, attempting to convince himself he isn’t stalling, but merely approaching such a delicate situation cautiously. “More like a huge favor or two. Which, possibly, could have us thrown in the stockade for the rest of our lives. You know, if we’re caught.”

Although Hawkeye delivered it in a casual tone, it prompts BJ to take a cursory glance about for any eavesdroppers. The camp remaining oblivious, as usual, to the dealings of their small world. Passing by without as much as a curious look in their direction.

“That sounds major,” BJ remarks in a conspiratorial tone, not quite refusing—yet.

With a noncommittal shrug, he says, “It usually is when it comes to your own life.”

“Fair enough,” BJ returns. “But, I’m not quite understanding what ill-fated future you’re attempting to avoid.”

“The very one we’re risking.”

BJ blinks, clearly confounded. “You’re risking the stockade to avoid the stockade?”

Pursing his lips in a show of feigned consideration, Hawkeye deflects, “Well, when you put it that way, it all sounds rather silly.”

“Hawkeye.” His friend’s face morphs from confused to something far more open and earnest. “I can’t really agree to anything without full disclosure. You know I’m behind you, but I need to be a little more in the loop.”

“Yeah.” Hawkeye nods solemnly. Sobering at the concept of all BJ would be risking and how viciously unfair it’d be if he remains in the dark while doing so. “It’s something I can’t…” He clears his throat as it constricts from a spike of fear. “I can’t say it aloud.”

“All ri—”

“And,” Hawkeye rushes to add, “no matter what you choose, I need you to _swear_ you won’t repeat it to anyone. You can pretend you never learned this. Hell, you can even pretend you never met me, but I need you to promise to either take this to the grave or decide not to take it at all.”

His friend flinches at the intensity of his plea. And Hawkeye experiences a stab of guilt at the idea his good-natured friend may never have been placed in such a compromising position.

“Please,” Hawkeye’s tone pitches softer. “We’ve only known each other a few months, but…” He scrubs a hand down his face, if only to conceal the mounting sorrow of potentially losing another friend to unfortunate circumstances. “You’re one of the only people I can trust with this, at the moment.”

A sigh escapes his friend at that. BJ’s eyes turning downcast as he absorbs the gravity of said promise.

“Okay,” he says at length, hands extending outward in a show of them tied. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Hawkeye studies him for a hint of dishonesty and comes up short. BJ’s integrity more than enough proof, even in the midst of an argument.

“Here.” Hawkeye fishes a folded paper from the breast pocket of his robe and extends it between two fingers.

BJ eyes it with clear trepidation before accepting. Shooting a wary look towards Hawkeye, then the camp before he unfolds it and reads. He startles as he absorbs the information; eyes widening, and mouth slightly agape.

At his friend’s stunned silence, Hawkeye nervously jests, “Just wait until I pull a rabbit out of my hat.”

“H-how—?” Shredding the paper with trembling fingers, BJ scans the area outside the tent once more. His face difficult to read when he eventually turns his attention back to the conversation. “How did—”

“I become this way?” Hawkeye finishes for him, irked to have his identity questioned by the one person he thought would not. “It all started when Mommy met Daddy—”

“No, no.” Waving a hand to cut him off, BJ clarifies, “How were you able to pass the draft examinations?”

The question is beyond what Hawkeye expected, causing him to jerk backward in surprise. Staring at the man who looks upon him with quiet acceptance and genuine concern.

“What?” BJ asks, realizing he’s rendered him speechless.

Hawkeye’s eyes narrow, floored by the casualness of the man’s tone. “That’s it?”

“What’s it?”

Scoffing, Hawkeye waves a hand. “ _That._ ” When BJ’s brows lift in question, he clarifies, “You don’t have anything to say about—?”

“Should I?”

Releasing a harsh breath, Hawkeye swiftly falls back into defensive default, “Should you?”

“Hawk, I’ll level with you,” BJ continues. “It’s certainly a shock, but not in the way you might be thinking.”

“And what way would that be, exactly?” Rising to his feet, Hawkeye circles the heater. Debating whether to remain close or move to Frank’s bunk for distance. “Everyone is shocked by it. My dad was. Hell, _I was_ when I realized. So, why aren’t you?”

BJ huffs. “Would you rather I be?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he blurts, then catches himself. “No.” Plopping heavily onto Frank’s cot, Hawkeye runs a hand through the grease of his hair. “Care to enlighten me?”

“Back home, I had a few patients who are, well, you know.” BJ gestures generally to him. “No other doctor would treat them, and I couldn’t bring myself to turn them away.” He shrugs. “People are people.”

Although not entirely unexpected, the words still pierce his core. The weight of it forcing Hawkeye to turn away; reaching to collect a book from Frank’s desk to skim through absently during the remainder of the conversation. And hoping, Hawkeye thinks futilely, to squash the stirrings of something he began to feel mere weeks prior. A potentially dangerous and painful one, he’s more than aware from past experiences.

“Ah,” Hawkeye says for lack of anything eloquent. 

“I didn’t pity any of them for their circumstances,” BJ assures before Hawkeye’s thoughts have a chance to leap to any conclusions. “I’m not going to help you out of pity, either.”

“But you’ll help,” Hawkeye dares to venture.

“If you tell me how you were drafted,” BJ persists. “And what you’re asking me to do.”

Hawkeye tosses the book onto the tiny desk. Already having accepted such terms prior to his confession, he makes to explain—only to be curtailed by the sudden announcement blaring over the speakers: “Attention: incoming wounded. All medical teams to OR.”

A small curse escapes him as they rise to their feet. “Looks like storytime will have to wait.”

BJ is already passing him, defaulting to doctor mode with grim determination creasing the skin between his brows. A wave of fear overwhelming Hawkeye enough for him to grab hold of BJ’s shoulder, halting him just shy of the door.

“Beej,” he asks tentatively, allowing himself a vulnerable moment in search of reassurance.

A hand, warm and gentle, comes to rest atop his own. BJ’s gaze softening towards him in a way Hawkeye’s never received from anyone. “Not a word. I promise.”


End file.
